


Puppies, Ponies, Parisian Sweets

by Senket



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-12
Updated: 2011-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-15 15:10:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senket/pseuds/Senket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>based on the <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=31834711#t31834711">prompt</a> from part XII:<em> Lestrade is the one saves both Sherlock and John at the pool. Mycroft is so grateful that he decides to return his favor by sending him lots of expensive presents. Cars, bikes, A HOUSE, a little pony, whatever. Based on Lestrade's journal he kept when he was 10 yr old. And in one page, 5 yr old Lestrade wrote, "I want to have a RICH boyfriend." (He knew he was gay even when he was only 10.) Since Mycroft is obviously rich enough........</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Puppies, Ponies, Parisian Sweets

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Щенки, пони и парижские сласти](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1391698) by [Alves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alves/pseuds/Alves)



> I'm working on too many long serious things at the same time, apparently.

On one very busy night, a pool that hadn't seen death since Carl Powers decades ago met a very unfortunate fate. Luckily its cool water managed to keep its two most important occupants alive and mostly unharmed (ish), so that a particularly dashing copper could storm in and rescue them both.  
  
That made a fourth fairly important character quite happy.  
  
Two weeks later, the dashing hero's old diary- oh. Really? So sorry.  
Two weeks later, the dashing hero's old _journal_ (quite old, in fact. over three decades old.) vanished, to his absolutely lack of notice.  
  
The thief? Character number four, quite important after all (sneakily so, as usual, as none of the others had really noticed yet. He did it on purpose, you see.) That man's name was Mycroft Holmes, and he was thankful for the dashing hero (Lestrade, of course)'s dashing rescue of the floundering (or not) John Watson and, _of course_ , #4's brother, Sherlock Holmes. Very thankful indeed. Thankful enough to play 12 days of Christmas with only a ten-year-old's dia- sorry, _journal-_ for reference.  
  
Day one? A bicycle, flames painted across the steel tubing, and a very specific casket for a plastic water bottle. Mycroft watched eagerly from his cameras, but Lestrade only gave it a bemused glance as he passed on the way to his motorcycle. (The leathers were fantastic, though, Mycroft thought appreciatively. Mmm.) Once he got back on track, he was a little irritated at the lack of proper response. He tore that page out and leafed through the messy child's writing until he found another wish.  
  
Day two was a Saturday, which meant that Lestrade didn't get out of bed until noon somehow. He shuffled to the door to get his paper, opened it, and nearly tripped over a box just on his front step. A happy yip attracted his attention. A fuzzy yellow puppy panted up at him, tail hitting the cardboard edges with a loud thump-thump-thump. Lestrade blinked and shut the door.  
  
After a moment the door creaked open again; the man glanced both ways suspiciously before scooping the tiny creature into his arms and inside.  
  
Mycroft preened with pleasure and decided to one-up himself. On day three, Lestrade was _significantly_ less pleased at the sight of a mottled Shetland pony eating up his neighbor's begonias. He called animal services. Mycroft sulked all day, and tore out several pages of the journal for the sake of it. They didn't say anything useful anyway. (Although he held onto the image of a laughing prepubescent Greggie Lestrade wrestling his football mates into the mud for teasing him about a poor pass.)  
  
Day four was rather uneventful, as Gregory Lestrade passed by the shiny red convertible without a look.  
  
Day five was only vaguely more interesting- when he found the deeds to an island bungalow in the pacific, he merely tossed them into his rubbish bin, muttering something about scammers. 

Day six, seven, eight and nine involved various sweets. Apparently Greggie had a sweet tooth to rival Mycroft's. He was going to take advantage of _that_. And Lestrade accepted all of them, which made Mycroft preen. ...Of course, they were delivered by grocers, still wrapped, because otherwise Lestrade wouldn't trust them.  
  
Day ten was sort of a shot in the dark, tickets to Munich for Oktoberfest, mostly because Lestrade kept finding and disabling the spycams Mycroft kept installing, and he needed to get him out of the house for a while to get them better hidden.  
  
Day eleven found Mycroft getting increasingly annoyed. Apparently, Lestrade really _didn't_ want a fountain of chocolate in the middle of his bedroom. Was that senseless or _what_? Mycroft couldn't understand at all.  
  
Day twelve had Mycroft shifting (not giddily, really), leaning on his umbrella as he waited for the door to open. Late, Lestrade almost bowled him over and almost fell anyway when he backpedalled. "Hello?"  
  
"Hello."  
  
Lestrade stood for a moment, glancing up and down the mysterious man in the suit. "Can I help you?"  
  
"I'm here for you."  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
"To be your boyfriend."  
  
The pause was awkward, unbearably awkward. At least for the Dashing Hero. Mycroft didn't seem to notice.  
  
"...Sorry?"  
  
"To be your boyfriend!" he repeated, brows arching. "I'm rich, you know."  
  
Lestrade choked a little, snapping his mouth closed to stop the 'umm' from escaping. He floundered for a moment, glancing past Mycroft's shoulder, torn between closing the door again, trying to shoulder past, or letting this _conversation_ work itself out. "Yes, sorry. Come again?"  
  
Mycroft smiled lightly, pulling a fraying volume from his pocket. Lestrade blanched at the sight of it, but embarrassment passed quickly when he leaned forward to peer at it. "Why have most the pages been ripped out?"  
  
"Never mind that," Mycroft answered, pulling the journal away from Lestrade's seeking fingers. "It says here, 'I wish I had a rich boyfriend, so I could be set forever, and I want him to be clever and really like me a lot.' So here I am."  
  
Lestrade blinked, glanced back into his flat at the puppy crashing into furniture, then looked at Mycroft again. After a long pause he sighed, stepping out of the doorway.  
  
"Well, come on in then."


End file.
